Scars
by Frakme
Summary: Scars... sometimes people have matching ones. Johnlock, Molly/Greg, Anthea & Mycroft, Moran & Moriarty.
1. JohnSherlock - The Scars that Bind Us

John lay on his stomach as Sherlock lightly traced a hand over his back. The detective caressed the scar of the bullet wound on his left shoulder, feeling the texture. It was something he had done many times before, fascinated by the feel of it under his fingers, a reminder of what had brought John from Afghanistan into the detective's life and heart.

There was a matching, smaller scar on John's chest, the bullet that hit him had gone straight through, leaving a messy exit wound. The army doctor felt self-conscious of it, but was strangely touched by Sherlock's fascination by it.

He pulled away from Sherlock's touch, tired of the examination and wanting to do his own examinations of Sherlock's scars. He pressed the taller man onto his back and first gently caressed the bullet wound on the right side of his chest, smaller and neater than his own scar. At least Sherlock had had immediate attention in a hospital; John's scar was the result of self-treatment in the field and infection that developed, nearly killing him, before he was taken back to camp for proper medical treatment. Unlike John's wound there was no accompanying exit scar. The bullet had not gone all the way through.

He sighed softly, trying to banish the memory of who had put that scar there. Instead he traced other scars, thin white lines across his hips, a jagged one near the top of his thigh and he knew there were more on his back. Scars that were obtained through torture just before Sherlock came back from the dead. Scars that Sherlock had received in the desperate acts he committed in order to save John's life.

Sherlock, looked at him, hearing the sigh and whispered John's name softly.

"I would do it all over again, so long as I could have this with you," he said softly.

"And I would endure this again," replied John touching his own scar. "Than risk never having a life with you."


	2. MollyGreg - Our Scars Don't Define Us

Greg pulled Molly into his lap and kissed her gently. She threaded her hands through his silver hair as he trailed more kisses down her slender throat. The pathologist sighed softly as a warm, calloused hand pushed under her jumper and blouse to caress her stomach and hip, though it stilled when she tensed slightly.

"You alright, sweetheart?" he asked, his dark brown eyes looking into hers with concern. "Do you want me to stop?"

Molly shook her head firmly, her long, dark hair swinging enticingly.

"No… it's just…" she swallowed nervously, pulling away with an apologetic smile. She stared into his eyes which were filled with nothing but concern and affection then took a deep breath. In one swift movement, she pulled off her blouse and jumper, leaving her in just her pale blue cotton bra. Greg's eyes swept over her slim frame, taking in her small, perfectly shaped breasts and flat stomach, then swallowed as he saw a jagged, almost circular scar just above the pale soft skin of her left hip.

"Molly," he said, compassion in his voice. "That looks like…"

Molly placed a hand self-consciously over the scar.

"Yes, it is what it looks like. A broken bottle. My boyfriend… about six years ago. He thought I was cheating on him and he did that." She looked down, crossing her arms around her body. "It wasn't the first time he'd hurt me, but it was the last." Her lips pursed together in a determined line.

Greg was forced to tamp down a surge of rage at the fucker who had done this. Instead he pulled Molly into his arms and kissed the top of her head.

"I would never, ever hurt you," he whispered into her hair. "And I would never allow anyone else to. Did you press charges?"

He felt her nod against him.

"Yes... he was charged and went to court. I was terrified but I had to go through with it, he could've killed me. He got eighteen months." She sounded bitter and disgusted. Greg shared her disgust; the chances are, he would've gotten out earlier than that, free to carry out his violent impulses again. He made a mental note to look him up. Perhaps he and the boys could pay him a visit. Molly had more friends than even she knew.

He pulled away and gave her a wry smile.

"i have a matching scar," he said as he stood up. He unzipped his jeans and lowered them, before pointing to a similar, jagged circular line, slightly smaller and paler than Molly's, located at the top of his muscular thigh. Molly tentatively stroked it with a delicate hand.

"About fifteen years ago, when I was still a uniform, I was breaking up a pub brawl. Got a broken bottle shoved in my leg. Donovan, who was a newbie at the time, saved my life by stopping me bleeding to death. I nearly quit the force because of it... but I'm glad I didn't."

"Oh," murmured Molly as she gingerly touched the scar. It was her turn to offer a tremulous smile. "We do match." Her heated gaze met his and understanding flowed between them. Neither of them wanted what had happened to them to affect the rest of their lives.

"Yeah," he replied, before pulling her into another deep and passionate kiss, to which she eagerly responded. He pulled away and then whispered into her hair. "Now lemme see the rest of you!"


	3. Mycroft & Anthea - For Queen & Country

"Good morning, Anthea, just leave those there would you?"

Mycroft barely looked up from his laptop when he heard his assistant enter with the files from the archives he had requested. Nimbly, she placed them on the desk one handed, her other hand occupied, as usual, with her Blackberry.

"Anything else, sir?" she asked, eyes still glued to the 'phone.

"More coffee would be appreciated. I'm afraid we're in for a long day." He glanced up just in time to see her lips quirk into an ironic smile. She bustled about in the corner of the room, setting up the filter machine to make a jug full of Mycroft's preferred Javan dark roast.

"Not really an unusual occurrence for us, is it?" she quipped. "By the way I've just rearranged your meeting with the Junior Minister of Defence to Friday at 10am."

"Oh, thank goodness. Though I am sure he won't be best pleased at being postponed again."

Anthea smirked.

"He wasn't," she said. "However I impressed upon him that you had other matters that took priority over budget reports."

"Yes, I can't say I'm displeased at postponing another three more hours of utter tedium."

"It has been a bit dull lately," she acknowledged. "Certainly since Serbia." She passed him a cup of coffee and he took it with a muttered 'thank you', before taking a swig of the bitter brew. He put the cup back down and looked up at her.

"I shall concede that point but I would like to add that Serbia was a little too much excitement for my liking. You know how much I despise legwork."

"Yes, sir… especially when it's our blood being spilled," she remarked, dryly.

He leaned back and rubbed the back of his neck where, just above the line of his shirt collar, there was a thin red scar. Seeing where his hand was, Anthea swept her dark hair over her shoulder, revealing a similar scar on the side of her neck. When the sniper had shot at them, Anthea had pulled Mycroft away at the last second, the bullet grazing the back of his neck, before catching the side of Anthea's. They had both counted themselves incredibly lucky; just a few millimetres and one or both of them would've been dead.

Fortunately, one of their own men had taken out the sniper and they were both able to make their way to safety, albeit somewhat bloody. Plus there was the successful conclusion of their mission, which meant yet another refusal of a knighthood. Sherlock wasn't the only one who despised such pomp and circumstance.

They shared a smile of camaraderie as they both contemplated each other's scars. Anthea had worked for Mycroft for a number of years now and he considered her indispensable, even as a natural successor for when he eventually retired. He was certain that he couldn't possibly leave the British Government in more capable hands.

"Let's try not to pick up any more such scars, shall we?" he murmured. "Now, I'd like to start with the 3rd of April transcripts, please."

Anthea quickly located the correct file and handed it over.

"Thank you, that'll be all for now." She nodded and left, eyes back on her blackberry, so she didn't notice Mycroft watching her leave.

_I hope_, he thought idly, _that Anthea's partner wasn't too cross about that scar…_


	4. Moriarty & Moran - Conceal & Reveal

Jim Moriarty stared morosely in the mirror, then touched the side of his face.

"This stuff is SHIT!" he snapped at his companion. "I can still see the damn scar!" He picked up the concealer cream he'd been given and chucked it at the mirror.

Moran looked at Jim disdainfully.

"It worked for me," the sniper said, staring into the mirror at the image next to Jim's. The long scar Jim had gotten in his ruse on St Bart's rooftop could still be seen under the professional concealer.

"Yours isn't on your face!" the criminal genius whined petulantly. "I used to be so pretty. Now look at me!"

Moran hid a smirk at the pitiful tone of Moriarty's voice. He was always a vain little bastard, with his Westwood suits and impeccable grooming. The ex-assassin was far less interested in outward appearances, except where it served a purpose, to misdirect, obfuscate and deceive.

Moran picked up the cream and a sponge.

"Here, Jim, let me have another try." Sighing, Jim tried to remain still as Moran's gentle, precise fingers carefully blended the cream into cover the scar. Jim did have a point, though, her scar wasn't anywhere near as obvious. Good job, as even an unobservant man such as her husband might wonder how she managed to get such a unique scar on her right arm. And she was careful to never reveal it to her husband's best friend.

"There, Jim. Honestly, you can't see it at all, dear," she said soothingly. Jim relaxed at the gentle tone of Mary's voice.

"Thank you, sweetie," he said, his voice now sugary sweet. "Whatever would I do without you?"

"You probably won't be able to end Holmes without me. Now I'd best get back, otherwise John will be wondering where I am…"


End file.
